


Namo's Halls

by LearnToShareFeanor



Series: Fools in Love [3]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Coming Out, Dagor Dagorath, Dreamwalking, Fall of Gondolin, Feanor is an ass, Glorfindel's best non-elf buddy is literally the being who helped chain Morgoth, Glorfindel's mom ain't got no time for that, Having to chose between a parent and the one you love, Lots of tears, Major Character Death- Sort Of, Multi, Only sort of because they're already dead, References to the kinslayings, References to the women and children who died in the Fall of Gondolin and Dagor Dagorath, Reincarnation can be great or absolutely terrible, Semi-graphic torture of Maeglin, Sequel to Courting Mishaps and Midsummer Night's Dance, So now you're dead. Welcome to Namo's Halls!, Tensions due to homophobia, To your mom, Vengeance is kinda hot in a demonic sort of way, mentions of past non-con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2016-04-13
Packaged: 2018-05-24 09:07:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6148536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LearnToShareFeanor/pseuds/LearnToShareFeanor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gondolin has fallen due to the treachery of Maeglin and his supporters. Hundreds have died; thousands more will in Dagor Dagorath. Glorfindel is left, dead, in Namo's Halls after the fight with the Balrog. What really happened between 510 of the First Age, when he died and 1600 of the Second Age? Or rather- what happened in the halls of Namo, Lord of Death and Judgement? </p><p>Some of this will be confounding and confusicating, as Bilbo would say, if you haven't read Courting Mishaps first. I recommend doing so- especially the last few chapters. </p><p>This work is STRONGLY inspired by the magnificent piece of literature which is Sansûkh. If you have not read it- what's wrong with you? Go read it. </p><p>-ON HIATUS UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE -</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The End and The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Sansûkh](https://archiveofourown.org/works/855528) by [determamfidd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/determamfidd/pseuds/determamfidd). 



> A/N: It's here! Or, well, at least the first part of it is here. Namo's Halls is still being written, so we're going back to the once per month update (sorry!), but I thought I'd go ahead and post the first chapter. I hope you enjoy! Please let me know what you think. 
> 
> Valaraukar- Quenya for Balrog  
> Laurefindel- Glorfindel's original name.  
> Amme- Quenya for the informal version of mother (i.e, mom, mommy) courtesy of Nevrast.

          I have won!  _Fire._ I defeated it-  _Burning._ -and the evil Maiar fell to its doom!  _AGONY._ I turned back to the pass, and then-  _hair-should have braided it-_ I'm caught, but I can still free-  _dark_ \- myself. I struggle, and-  _black._

         When I wake up, I am cold, and it feels so strange- how came I to be cold, when my death was by fire? And then I gag, but nothing happens, because I am  _dead._ Dead. It feels strange. I don't like it. I try to open my eyes, but there is only darkness around me, and I fear that- because we left Valinor- that I have been cast into the emptiness of the void. My breathing comes faster, and then- blessed, sweet light! 

         I feel- empty. I choke for a moment with the fear that my very soul was burned instead of my body, but I could weep with relief when I find that my bond with Erestor and my vow to Turgon are still there. I can still feel them, but Erestor- so distant. Can I weep? My thoughts- they jump and turn around, but all I can do is open my eyes and stare at the floor below me. It's white marble, I notice distractedly, and I look down further to find that I am nude. It makes sense, I suppose- the burning. My plate mail failed me at the end of it- silks and wool would certainly have failed me too. I gag again, and vomit this time at the memory of the  _smell_ of my own burning flesh and hair. 

         Shakily, I force myself up, and look around. The walls are covered in tapestries- Vairë's work. I can feel tears run down a too-sensitive face when I turn about and see- I see myself, falling from the cliff pass, my sword facing the Valaraukar, its hand in my hair. I fall to my knees once more, and make the mistake of looking up into blackness- perhaps a window to the void, for it seems to envelop and swallow every inch of my sanity. 

         I hear the door creak- and suddenly, there is the sound of feet running, and I hear a familiar voice. I'm not sure, but I think she says- "Laurefindel? No- no, not him. _Please,_ not my-“

         And silence. 

 

 

         When I open my eyes again, I am staring at a bright yellow canopy for a bed. The bed itself feels soft, and warm, but it is far too empty. I struggle to put a hand under me and push myself up. I  _ache_ in a way that I never have before, and when I look down to my bare chest, I can see livid scars from the Valaraukar's whip. I sit up further, the blankets fall away, and I find that- thankfully- I am wearing pants. I put my head in my hands again, and cannot stop the tears. For now the shock has faded, and I find that- I miss my home. And my friends. And my Erestor. And if I am one of those who has to wait for the Second Song- will they still remember me? 

         Will I still remember them? 

         I freeze once more when I hear something oddly familiar. Someone is humming outside of this curtained off bed, and it is  _painfully_ familiar. I know this- I do not know where I have heard it last, but it tears at something inside of my heart. 

         "Laurefindel?" I  _know_ that tone! But this is- this cannot be, I have not heard it since before we left for Aman when I was a much younger elf. Who is this? I'm left with no choice, really, but to dry my eyes and open the curtain as best I can with one arm attached to my side by virtue of scar tissue and pain. And then- 

         "Amme?"


	2. The Far Green Country

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Title unashamedly taken from Gandalf. :-) I know I'm still using the Sindarin Gondolin, when I should be using Ondolindë, but it became a habit, and it seemed too stilted, so I'm going to keep using Gondolin. Translations: 
> 
> vó- son, courtesy of Parf Edhellen (Quenya)  
> Sívë- peace, Parf Edhellen (Quenya)  
> Gilyā- silver spark, Parf Edhellen (Quenya)  
> Naugrim- offensive and commonplace word for Dwarf. Sindarin (Parf Edhellen) I wasn't able to find a Quenya translation, sorry.  
> Mordo- Hero, Quenya, Parf Edhellen.
> 
> For vó, I'm using it as a suffix partly because 'Ninquaionion? What?' and partly because I wanted to use some of the Quenya that his mother would have used. 
> 
> As always, please let me know what you think, or if you spot any errors! This is beta read by yours truly, so I probably looked over a few of them. 
> 
> Oh, and Feanor is an ass.

            The she-elf standing near the bed drops the clothing she carried in her hands, and Glorfindel found himself wrapped in the arms of an elf he remembered solely as fuzzy white and gold, happy smiles, terrible tears, and a smooth voice. He knew more about her from the way his family spoke- it was how he had learned of her many betrayals of his father- than from his mother.  
  
            Her hair- it must be where he got his curls from, for it is a riot of curls and frizz- so like his own when he didn’t care for it for a while! It was somewhere between red and his own gold, for which he’d been named. She was pale indeed, as were many of the Vanya ladies of high standing- they did little work, preferring to rule. His father had married into power, and she had suffered because of it. Her eyes were silver, like many of the Silver Fountain had.  
  
            Her hands were soft, her feet were bare, and she wore only a blue ribbon in her hair, to match the navy dress cast upon her form.  
  
            “Oh, my Laurefindel- Little Sunbeam, what happened to you?” The old nickname- for his hair, his ever-smiling and laughing nature, and his refusal to stay indoors- stopped up his throat. He buried his head in her cloth-covered shoulder, and she ran her fingers through his tangled golden waves.  
  
            His shoulders shook, and he wondered at this- the last time he’d seen his mother, he’d been small enough for her to, with only a little difficulty, carry him. Now- he could easily pick her up. “I died, Amme.” He croaked, hot tears running from his eyes.  
  
            “Little Sunbeam- dry your tears. Come now, death is death- you cannot change the past. But you are safe now.” She whispered, holding him close. She sat there for a while, speaking softly to him; sometimes, she would hum snippets of a song or two.  
  
            He made an effort to slow his breathing down and found that it helped. Soon, though he felt oddly exhausted, his weeping had stopped, and he was able to wipe his face with his hands. They were quiet then, and suddenly she chuckled. “I shall have to find a new name. Sunbeam you are still, I hope, but- little cannot be used in any description of you!”  
  
            He laughed as well, stretching out his legs- hers came only to his knees and yet she sat in his lap. “I am called- often enough- Glorfindel. So often, in fact, that it has become the name I give.”  
  
            Her fair face tightened. “I see- at least, I suppose, you honor the last part of your name. Why did you change it, if I might ask?"  
  
           "After we left the Ice, many no longer went by old names. It is- a long story, I think. But my name still means golden-haired, though it has a different sound." He answered. "Why, is something wrong?"  
  
           She shook her head. "Many have come in the last few days; so many who are similar but different in sorrowful ways." Her hands gently, sadly, pressing against the scars on his shoulders. "A mother always knows her son- but still, it was hard. My Little One, some- warrior."  
  
           At that, she stood and straightened her dress, giving him a smile. "Come, though. I imagine more has happened than merely- death. Tell me, for I dearly wish to know what happened with your life after the spider came."  
  
           He shuddered at the memory- he could remember very little of when the lamps finally went dark, but he could remember, vaguely, being told his mother hadn't made it. "Well, I was- as most of us were- forced to learn the sword. And then Fëanor- you would remember him as Curufinwë, I think- forced his sons to swear a terrible oath. Never has there been a worse, I think."  
  
           She sighed, heavily. "Aye- I know of his mindless slaughter from some of the Telerin and Noldo who fell." She sat down and stared at him. "Please tell me you did not-"  
  
           "No!" He assured her hurriedly. "No, I followed King Fingolfin and his people- Ñolofinwë." He explained at her confusion.  
  
           Once more, she sighed. "Everyone has changed their names, it seems. Was that- the Helcaraxë?"  
  
           He nodded, and she sat once more at the foot of his bed. "Many fell there- they told me of great horrors." She glanced at him, a strange incredulous smile on her face. "But you- my Little Sunbeam, who would cry when he so much as skinned his knees-" Glorfindel made a noise, waving her off. It was true, before they'd learned how to fight, he was soft. But he didn't have to like it. She laughed. "You did! I remember. You did not. So then, after the Helcaraxë."  
  
           He smiled, shaking his head. "You ask me to skip over so much!"  
  
           She smiled too, but this time it was a sad one. "Aye.I ask you to skip over the darker things which I already know; I will hear them, in time. Allow a mother her fancies."  
  
           That was a sobering thought, and he sat up completely, dangling his legs over the edge of the bed as she did- though his feet hit the ground. The room, he now observed, was clean and neat with stone flooring (brown stones- he could be quite content not seeing white marble for a while), excepting the pile of clothes not too far from his bed. There were no windows, but there was a mural on one side of the wall which represented a blue sky over a field of flowers. And then- to his shock- they moved in some unseen wind, butterflies flitting about.  
  
           "What is that?" He asked, stumbling to his feet. Quickly, his mother steadied him, and assisted him in walking over to the wall. She seemed quite content to discontinue their conversation for the current moment.  
  
           "One of the meadows in the Lady Yavanna's home; some of the Maia are kind enough to give us these windows into Valinor." Reverently, almost as if he feared to break the enchantment, he touched the wall. It felt like naught but solid wood.  
  
           Suddenly, he turned. "Can they see us? If- if someone came into where the picture was, could we- speak?"  
  
           His face was hopeful, and her own face fell. "My son, I promise- if that was possible, I would have spoken with you long ago. But outside of these halls, we are naught but spirit and thought, and none can see us in their waking hours. Sometimes- sometimes, we can enter their dreams. But not often, for it is taxing."  
  
           His shoulders slumped and he looked towards the painting again, mouth tasting bitter. He would have liked to keep up with the survivors. "Do you know- who died? In Gondolin?" He asked, hating himself for the hope he felt.  
  
           She shook her head. "Nay. Only the Maia, or perhaps Namo himself, know all the dead. But his servants inform us when those we have loved have fallen that we can greet them."  
  
           He nodded, and then swallowed. "Do you know if- did Ninquaion die?"  
  
           She released a bitter bark. "Oh, he has done much he must answer for- especially if he made even the most forgiving of my kin refuse to call him 'father'. Not yet- my once-husband still lives."  
  
           He scowled, fury building up inside of him. "And how many innocents have died? How many children left screaming on a mountain pass, ellith slain- and worse- by orc, and warriors die in the name of a doomed city? How many must die before the one who began this gets what he has earned?!" He was nearly bellowing in his rage by the end, and though his fist was certainly hurled with enough strength to crack bone, it did nothing to the wood or enchantment over it. Nothing but a heaving chest and aching hand.  
  
           "Laurefindel Sívëvó, do not raise your voice in this room!" She turned his ear in her hand as if he was a recalcitrant child once more, and tugged him to his bed. "Sit."  
  
           He sat, frowning and rubbing his ear, anger still simmering under his skin. She removed something from a set of drawers nearby, and sat herself behind him. "I understand your anger- better than you may think." She started at the ends of his hair, working a comb through it. "Especially at your father." The last was barely a whisper, though filled with venom. He felt he should probably not have heard it- and yet he did.  
  
           "Can I ask why you chose him? Or was this- like Gilyā- forced to marry?"  
  
           She sighed, moving to another part of his hair. "Oh, Laurefindel. I know not who this Gilyā is, but- I was foolish. I chose to marry him." She rested a head on his shoulder, stopping her movements. "He was handsome- and he was kind. Yes!" She cried at his objection. "My, he was kind. Never raised his voice, and he was- warm. I felt that he was like me- a person of peace- and I thought he was misnamed. This all changed, of course, once we were wed- about a decade or two after, he started looking for heirs. And then- the rest is history."  
  
           Her voice was ragged. "I thought, when I finally gave him you- I would have pleased him. But then he wanted more- and started listening to the teachings of a wise and beautiful member of the Valar- Melkor. And things became worse, such that I was not upset that I had died; rather, I was upset that I had fallen before I could be assured that you had a better home."  
  
           He was still, and then raised a hand to hold one of hers. "Sívë. I must admit, I am pleased you claim me- for I shall never again call him my father."  
  
           "Sívëvó you shall be- much easier to pronounce, anyway."  
  
           They laughed. "Aye." He was silent as she began to return to her tending of his mane. "Amme- did they tell you? I am wed as well."  
  
           She tugged his hair, painfully tight. "What?" She exclaimed. "But you are- time is slippery here, I know, but you cannot be more than seven hundred!"  
  
           He laughed. "No, certainly not. Three hundred and two, in a week."  
  
           She made a strange noise. "Are you mad? You are far too young-" and then her tone changed- "Oh, no, did Ninquaion arrange a marriage, Sunbeam?"  
  
           "No." He chuckled. "And if I am mad- which my mate would gladly tell you that I am- it is for love. He knows my nature and punishes me for the bad aspects by making me feel terribly guilty and apologize- or embarrassing me. I do the same, though I usually do not mean to embarrass him."  
  
           "I- That is...good?" She said, in an almost questioning tone. "I must admit, I am shocked- did you say he?"  
  
           "Yes." He stated firmly. "Do you see something wrong with this?" He asked, forcing his voice to hold firm. To lose the mother he had only just found- but if she made him choose, he knew to whom his favor would go. A hopefully still-living elf with hair black as coal and eyes like liquid stars.  
  
           She sat there for a few moments, quiet. "This sort of thing- it is not... spoken about in polite company, Laurefindel." She was obviously hesitant, and he hoped it was for fear of pushing him away, and not of force.  
  
           He turned to look at her. "But I am not Laurefindel. I am Glorfindel- and I have never broken a vow I have made, and never shall, if I can help it. I could not have loved Erestor more if he was an elleth, a mortal- or even, dare I say, one of the Naugrim."  
  
           Now that he thought about it- forge-worker and smith, from a long line of smiths, oddly short (all of the Silver Fountain were)- perhaps that blood was not purely Elven. "Perhaps- I need some time to come to terms with this. I- this is not..."  
  
           Her face was hopelessly confused, and he felt more pity than anything else. "Ah, Amme. Perhaps it is because of Ninquaion? If you had loved as deeply as I- I have not a doubt that you would agree."  
  
           "Perhaps." She agreed, face inscrutable. "You shall tell me about him- later. But first- has the Dark One been thrown down? Finally?"  
  
           Deciding not to argue, he once more turned his face to the wall and continued combing his hair. He exhaled heavily. "He has- been punished once more. But no. Gondolin has fallen, and I do not know if he shall be destroyed."  
  
           She stopped her combing, releasing a shaky breath. "Perhaps he shall never end."  
  
           Silence fell over the two, but eventually Sívë's hands found scars; he had many, and not just from the Valaraukar. "Will you tell me how these came to be?"  
  
  
           He nodded, but did not speak for a moment. He leaned forward, and pointed at a spot low on his back. "A spider- I do not remember it, except for horror and pain, but the healers told me I was quiet while they stitched me." Then he pointed to another, on his shoulder, barely suppressing a snicker. "This one? A friend, Ecthelion, and I were very, very drunk one night. And, of course, the first thing that two elves do when you decide to drink in the armory is- decide we need to spar. He got me a good one! I don't quite remember it, but I think I broke his nose. You should have been there when Erestor came in- he was livid!"  
  
           And he had been indeed. The rigorous exam for becoming one of the King's lower council was a four day affair, with few breaks for food and none for sleep. And on the fifth day, when he'd returned to his home, he had wanted only to enjoy Este's embrace for a week- but he'd been unable to do so thanks to his older brother and Glorfindel fighting, drinking, and laughing noisily downstairs. Finally- Glorfindel had no idea how long they'd been down there bleeding- but he came down, and they'd both thought Erestor was their drill sergeant for his voice, so full of wrath!  
  
           It had been a good night. His mother laughed at that one, calling him foolish, which he readily agreed to. "And if you think that one was entertaining, here!" He gestured to his side, where a strange symbol stood in red. "Rog and I- he's a friend and old rival, you'd not know him- we decided that the best place to work on hand to hand combat was in his forge." He turned his head back to her. "Sadly, I have not even the excuse of drunkenness for that one. But he jumped at me- and right out the window into the pigsty below! And I stumbled, getting myself branded. That's the first time I was laughed at by a farmer- and hopefully, the last."  
  
           "I almost dread to ask what this one is from!"  She exclaimed, and he dutifully flushed as she gestured at his left arm. There was a reason he only very rarely fought with it.  
  
           "Aiya! I thought I would be romantic- It was before the Midsummer Festival- and I climbed the outside of the House of the Silver Fountain. I was going to ask Erestor- but I went to the wrong room, and his cat jumped out on my head. I left with a broken arm- and it was a full two years before I grew the courage to ask him- this time, in a study, through the front door."  
  
           She positively chortled at his misfortune. "You climbed his house? Oh, Laurefindel, I'm surprised you weren't caught by guards."  
  
           The tips of his ears flushed tomato red to match his face, and she gasped. "You were!"  
  
           "Amme!" He objected. "Only two- and by his older brother. They all laughed."  
  
           Now that he thought about it, he was grateful that Ecthelion had been so amused. If he hadn't, the night could've ended with him in a prison cell. He hadn't lived it down- and he supposed he no longer had the opportunity to.  
  
           "And these, Laure- Glorfindel? They are everywhere!"  
  
           And his good mood dissipated like so much fog. He swallowed. "I fought through the city." He choked out. "Orc blades- and then I was on the pass. And I knew I would not survive it, but- I challenged it anyway. To give others time."  
  
           "What happened, my son?" She asked, lowering her voice and wrapping her arms about his frame.  
  
           "There were Maia which followed Morgoth. And corrupted they were, until they became beasts twice as tall as an elf, with terrible gazes, sharp teeth, and dark horns. And they were ever-burning in fire."  
  
           "No." She whispered, squeezing tighter. "You should not have-"  
  
           "Done this? I would have done it, and more, for my people. But these twisted beings- one was stopping us. And though I was already injured, I fought it- and won. But when I turned to leave, it took hold of my by my hair." Almost unconsciously, he tugged at golden strands. "And we both fell. And now I am here."  
  
           Tears once more fell down his face, but she did not begrudge them; instead, she wiped them away as they came, and held him close. When they were quiet, she turned him again to face the enchanted wall. "They only show Valinor, but- you can choose the shoreline for your own rooms. If he sails, you can see him again."  
  
           He nodded. "Thank you."  
  
           "Of course, sweet Mordo."  
  
           "I am not, Amme- just an elf." He objected.  
  
           His mother would hear none of it. "I am your mother, and I say you have become Mordo. I am sure many who fall in Gondolin will agree."  
  
           He sighed, but did not object again. She would do as she willed- perhaps he would be able to persuade her later. But for now, he was tired again. "Rest, Sunbeam, rest. I will be here when you awaken." She promised.   
  
           And, lying back on the bed, he obeyed.


	3. Wisdom, Justice, Vengeance, and Love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations: Kondor- warrior, Quenya, Elfdict  
> Narmacil- fire-sword, Quenya, Elfdict  
> Naraca- harsh, violent, Quenya, Elfdict  
> Gaergwen- Sea Maiden, Sindarin, Elfdict  
> Gaearion- Son of the ocean, Sindarin, Elfdict  
> Ninquaion- Son of the Cold, Quenya, Elfdict  
> Okthāpaime- primitive elvish and Quenya, war strife hostility and the vengeance taken, punishment given.   
> Antë-Giver, Quenya, Elfdict  
> Malasta- Soft, Yielding, Tender, Quenya, Elfdict  
> Malke- Rich, Quenya, Elfdict
> 
>  
> 
> A/N: So, here's the next chapter! I'm probably not going to be able to update for a while. I'm going through a really rough patch right now, so I thought I'd just get this one out. Title partially taken from 'Wisdom, Justice, and Love' from Linkin Park.

                The next morning- or day, or night, time was impossible to tell here- he woke again in his mother’s rooms. She had taken her rest in a chair by the bed, which he felt rather guilty for. His feet hung uncomfortably off the edge of it, and he rose quietly. She shifted uncomfortably, and he placed her in his spot, quiet as he could. Noise of knocks and soft voices echoed out from the hall, and with a last look at his mother, he straightened his hair and tunic, leaving nearly silently.

                The halls seemed busy indeed, and he followed the crowd curiously; he ended up in a large, wide room with tables and benches and chairs everywhere. Raucous laughter, hiccupping sobs, soft conversations- they echoed through his mind, and he decided to walk through it. And there- there he was. “Ecthelion!” He cried.

                Ecthelion was covered in scratches and scars which had not been there previously, but his face lit up when he turned about to see who had called to him so familiarly.

                “Glorfindel! What are you doing here? The last I saw, you were fighting through the very streets.”

                They embraced warmly, and Glorfindel answered; somehow, Ecthelion felt more- comfortable than his mother. “Aiya, I got into an argument with a Valaraukar. I won, but it dragged me down the moment I turned my back.”

                The other elf snorted at him. “Only one? I fought _three_!”

                “Aye, and none of the ones you fought were tricky- all you had to do was kill them and they stayed dead.”

                Ecthelion huffed irritably. “Stayed dead indeed. The beasts were heavy indeed- I am still not sure which is worse, the fire or the water. I fear I shall never look upon a fountain the same way again.”

                There was a vulnerability in those eyes that told him his law-brother had truly exposed himself. For once, he thought before he spoke, and did not jest. Instead, he matched him. “After looking down that pass as I fell- Thel, I believe I now hate heights.”

                The Lord of Silver Fountains nodded. “I met my father a while ago.” He stated, and Glorfindel allowed the change in topic.

                “Oh? I know little of him. What is he like?”

                The dark-haired elf shook his head. “He’s different; I am grateful Res and I got our looks from mother. All tall, pale, proud Noldo.”

                Glorfindel nodded, taking no offence at his sneer. He knew well that he was a tall, pale, proud Noldo, but the way someone carried themselves and acted towards others- well, they might be completely different in that regard. “Tell me of him, friend. And I shall speak of my mother.”

                Ecthelion shook his head. “I know not what to _say_ , Fin. After mother told me of her marriage- I had hoped that, perhaps, she had exaggerated. But I no longer believe so.”

                “What happened? Res would not speak of him.”

                “He-.” Ecthelion pointed to a corner of the room where a tall, red-headed elf was laughing at something. The elf in question did not _look_ particularly cruel, but there was a perpetual sneer to his lips that Glorfindel did not like. “Yes, the one with the red hair.” He lowered his hand. “He- to get us, Fin, he…he forced mother.”

                Ecthelion, as many elves of the first age, had no particular word for what had happened. Except for his mother, he’d only heard of it happening to the King’s sister, Aredhel. “Forced her to do what?” Glorfindel asked in innocent confusion.

                The gray eyed elf shook his head again, not knowing how to explain it. “He- remember Aredhel?”

                Glorfindel nodded, and then a horrible realization dawned upon him. “What? Why would he have-?”

                Ecthelion swallowed, and stared at his feet for a moment. “He said, she would not- and that it was her duty as his wife. He feels no guilt.”

                Though one of the Maiar had taken him to his father’s rooms, as Glorfindel had been taken to his mother’s, after that particular conversation, he had found some old friends. Rog’s father, the ever-protective and cheerful Kondor, had taken him in. There was a couch in their rooms reserved only for him.

                Rog spoke openly of his death, proud that it had _meant_ something, that he had saved others with his sacrifice. Naraca had been just as cheerful about it, and both Kondor and his wife, Narmacil, had spoken openly of their deaths as well. Narmacil, to his great shock, was only upset she had died because she failed to take Ungoliant herself down with her. Their own stories, so freely given, told usually with smiles and laughter, had helped him greatly. Sometime, in the quiet hours, he had told him of slaying the first Valuraukar, his shield shattering, and then the second. And finally, after his sword had fallen, using his own body and helm as a weapon, drowning and burning all at once.

                Glorfindel glared at the elf in the corner of the room, and silently vowed to wipe that sneer from his face when he was feeling a little less lightheaded. “Do you need a place to stay? Mother only has the one room, I think, but she mentioned that I would be getting my own soon enough.”

                Ecthelion shook his head once more, grateful that the conversation had changed once more. “Nay. Rog and his kin have been kind to me, and Lord Kondor has told me they are working on a new hall for new rooms; there are just so many who have died and are still dying that we must share rooms or wait here.”

                Glorfindel nodded his understanding. “And how is that rascal?” He asked, anything to get away from the previous conversation.

                Ecthelion laughed brightly. “You will not believe it! He thinks he has finally found his soul-mate.”

                “Oh?” He questioned. Though he knew that he should not remain jealous of Rog’s attempts to court his own mate- he’d fumbled things, after all- he could not help but be pleased that Rog’s attention would be on someone, _anyone_ , else.

                The dark haired elf snorted. “Come with me, and you shall meet her. The first time they met, she laid him on his backside on the floor though she’s just half his size for some insult. They’re very much in love, I think.”

                His eyes were dancing once more, and Glorfindel could not stop his laughter at imagining the large blacksmith, a few fingers shorter than himself, but a few hands broader, being thrown by someone so much smaller. “Gaergwen!” He called to a small Telerin elf, and Glorfindel chortled once more.

                She was indeed small- she’d be about mid-chest to Erestor, and even the smallest of his robes would have made her look like a child dressing in her father’s clothes. He’d seen elflings larger. Her hair was white as a cloud, and smooth; she wore it decorated with small braids and bright daylilies, though he knew not where she had found them. Her eyes were an odd mix of blue and green, like seafoam, and she wore a set of simple brown leggings and blues with a teal tunic embroidered with the likenesses of ships and waves and flowers.

                She smiled brightly at them both- almost painfully so- and greeted them kindly. Her voice, too, was soft, and distinctly reminded him of the crash of waves upon the shore. He spent a long while in her company, for her very presence was a balm to him- and, looking at his friend, he thought that perhaps she helped Ecthelion as well.

                She, of course, found herself curious about his death. He regaled them with the tale, though he was uncomfortable with the fuss she made of him afterwards. “And you?” He found himself asking.

                “I was but seventy-three when I died, my Lord, and so I shall never be an adult, if that is what you mean. But my home was burned at _Alqualondë.”_

That explained, then, why she was so small. She was an elfling, simply with the mind of an adult. His stomach rolled as she described what had happened. Gaergwen skipped over many details, but he now knew, thanks to his own death, many parts and pieces. There was the driving terror of being chased, the horror of watching all you love burn to ashes around you, the unspeakable feeling of being wrenched from your body- to here. To the Halls of Mandos. And he found himself in awe of her, and the strength of her will. She had a brother, a younger one, and she hid him from the invading Noldo- successfully, for he was not dead. In order to give the Noldo something else to focus on, she had run into the streets; she had given her life for his.

                Though she had not successfully fought them off, he felt her no less brave, no less strong. She asked him then of her brother, though she stated she expected he knew nothing of him- it was simply something she did to all new arrivals, in hope. He was only ten when she had fallen to a Noldorin spear, and his name was Gaearion. To her disappointment, but not to her shock, Glorfindel had not heard of him.

                They dutifully teased Ecthelion for his fondness of the rough-voiced Naraca, and Ecthelion took his leave from her, pulling his friend as well. He spoke for a while with Penlod, slain when one of the gates collapsed upon him and the enemies he’d been fighting, and Galdor, who had shot until he ran out of arrows, and then was slain when a dragon breathed its’ foul flames over the tower. Galdor told him he’d seen Erestor- the first to do so. According to Galdor, he was not sure whether or not his mate had become a kinslayer; he had killed Maeglin in order to save Idril and Tuor’s son. Kinslayer or rescuer? They were not yet sure.

                They ate then, though Glorfindel found himself confused- why did he need to eat if he was dead? More than one servant told him Erestor and his mother had made it away from the fallen city, but they were unable to tell him anymore. He spoke to his King for a moment; but he was reluctant to interrupt the reunion of Turgon and his fallen wife, and so did not speak to him any longer than it took to reassure them both that their daughter and grandson had, as far as he knew, had escaped from the city. And that Maeglin was dead. Turgon seemed both pleased and troubled about that.

                More came every few minutes- warriors who fought through waves of orcs and dragons and Valurauka who fell, civilians simply in the wrong place in the wrong time. He embraced those with no family or close friends among the dead and bid them sit near him until they found someone they knew. In this way, the Lord of the Golden Flower, became- however momentarily- a Lord and shepherd of the dead. The Maiar came for those who had family or friends; the rest stayed with Glorfindel. So busy was he, that he did not notice when his mother made her way through the crowd to him; the warrior-lord had become a veritable tree for elflings- he took both pleasure and sorrow from keeping them close until their parents inevitably followed.

                She brought him a goblet of wine, and instructed him to rest. “Amme, I am busy here- wait, until the tide has slowed, and I will. But not now.”

                She made the mistake of pressing him, and he thrust two young ones into her arms, where they proceeded to weep and tell her, in great detail, that they wanted their parents, begging all sorts of questions- were they dead? What does dead mean? Where are my parents? After only what felt like an hour or two, she took her leave of the communal hall, and he was left free to do his self-appointed tasks.

                Eventually, the tide indeed slowed, and those he questioned told him many things; the rivers had run red with blood upon Dagor Dagorath, the battle had been full of both friend and traitor, that the Queen, her mate and child, and Erestor, as well as several of the Lords of Gondolin, had escaped. Still, more elves came- and he wept even as he welcomed those he once called friends, those who gave their lives in the senseless rage of Morgoth. And finally, he saw a face he had both hoped and dreaded to see; hoped, for that would mean his father got at least part of what he deserved. Dread, for he knew it meant he must face him.

                One of the Maia, a creature of dark skin with eyes and hair of bright skin, took him before the two Lords could so much as make eye contact, and promptly branded Ninquaion upon his forehead, a  process which nearly drove his father to his knees; only the Maiar’s firm arm upon his neck prevented him from doing so. She pulled him away from the rest, and one of Egalmoth’s servants whispered to his ear- “They did the same thing to Maeglin, my Lord. We are told they are taken to be punished.”

                He nodded his thanks, in no hurry to greet his father in any manner. And he resumed his task; some, like his cousins, were easy. He held them while they wept, and usually within a few moments, one of Namo’s Maiar would come from behind them, stroking pale or golden hair, and lead them, gently, to family. They whispered their thanks; they had not been ready for so many, so soon. The scale of death woven on the Weaver’s tapestries was so unfathomable that they had no idea how to handle it.

                Many of them were dark of skin, as the first he’d seen was, but none of them had the crimson hair and eyes. “That is Okthāpaime.” He was told. “It is she who handles punishment, and warned us of war. It is said that she, along with Tulkas, created the word.”

                It was not hard to decide that he did not particularly want to meet this ‘Okthāpaime’. It was strongly hinted that until the punishment of Maeglin, Ninquaion, and those who followed them was handled, he would only see her dragging away those who needed her particular brand of ‘care’.

                More than once, he saw her- she had claws, he noticed, painted in crimson, and long teeth. She walked with another Maia, who he was told was her sister. Judgment and Vengeance, the Cease-Fire and the Declarer of War, they judged all who walked through Namo’s halls. Their master, of course, would review their choices later. But for now, Okthāpaime’s rage was tempered by her sister’s cool head, and those judged as needing punishment benefited from it. Though not for long, it had to be said, for she, as all revenge, could be far more cruel than the original crime.

                He lost track of her in the crowds, and found, to his relief, that the Maia had finished with many of the rooms, while others still worked further, and his charges were led off to rest. Turning back, he was unsettled to find the armored red-eyed Maiar next to him. “My Lady.” He greeted politely, bowing his head- it would not do, he sensed, to anger her.

                She snorted. “Call me Okthāpaime, or Vengeance, but not Lady. That is my sister.”

                He could not help but smile. “Very well. May I ask what brings you to my side, Vengeance?”

                She nodded. “It’s about time for your father. Would you like to say goodbye?”

                He looked at her in confusion. “Goodbye? Will he not stay in these halls?”

                She shook her head. “Not if I have my way. And my Master almost always lets me have it. There is a special place, just for traitors, that I reserve. He’ll be back when he’s paid his penance for that crime. Then he can work through the others.”

                He was silent for a moment, contemplating. “To tell you the truth, Vengeance, I do not wish to see him ever again; he may suffer far away, for all I care. But might I ask something of you?”

                Those crimson eyes found his own- it was disconcerting to find someone a good head taller than he was, and he had to look up. “You may ask. I may not do as you bid- but you may ask.”

                “Thank you.” He responded, and took a moment to find his quarry. “That elf.” He stated, pointing. “Has he been punished for what he has done?”

                The teeth, shining in a feral smile, were even more disconcerting up close. She chuckled. “Oh, he has suffered a little bit for it. But I have my plans, and he shall rue what he has done. He shall watch those he calls friends reborn; he is already and will continue to earn the scorn of even the lowest of elves; and one day, when we have a little extra time, he will be reborn.” Her bloody eyes were full of a dark promise. “I like, Glorfindel, to punish like with like.” He did not ask how she knew his name- it was very probably she’d heard it from any of the elves he had helped today, and he found he did not want to know if it was anything else. “Do you know they keep slaves, in some places?”

                He blinked up at her in confusion. “Slaves? What are those?”

                “Servants.” She answered. “Unpaid servants, often brutalized for their master’s enjoyment.” Her eyes narrowed on the father of Ecthelion and Erestor. “He will know the pain of his wife for himself.”

                The elf in question looked over- it was hard not to, with those all-seeing eyes upon you, he found- and she smiled at him as well. But it was not the smile she had given Glorfindel; it was the smile of Glaurung, or a Valaraukar, and it was full of a dark, painful promise.

                “Are all elves punished thusly?” He asked, wondering what his own would be- he had never done such evil, but he was proud, and wondered at the humiliation he would likely suffer.

                “Nay. I have found that life teaches its’ own lessons. If an elf has already learned it, I feel no need to go over it again. But for those who do not learn, do not even regret- oh _those_ I enjoy.” She smiled again, and nodded to him before turning to leave. “And Glorfindel?”

                “Yes, my- Vengance?” He responded, hurriedly correcting himself.

                “I hear all thoughts directed to me. I know what you thought when you first found out about Maeglin.” She stared at him for a moment, before licking her lips and giving him a conspiratorial glance and leaning in. “I ripped off his skin.” She hissed, chuckling. “One inch for every man, two for every dwarf, three for every elf, six for every elfling he has robbed of life. I have run out of skin- but it will grow back.” And she left him, shaking there in the wide greeting room.

                Another few minutes, and he finally sought his rest in his mother’s rooms. She was already asleep, so he simply rested in the chair. During the few times he managed to sleep, his dreams were plagued by a screaming, skinless Maeglin.

                His mother woke him sometime early the next day, and they went to eat. He spoke to her of Ninquaion, but kept the knowledge of Maeglin’s punishment to himself. However, he did speak of it when he followed Ecthelion to the crowded rooms of the House of the Hammer. He also whispered out Okthāpaime’s promise of his father’s punishment.

                “I shall have to thank her.” He stated, and the rather tight-knit (and obnoxiously loud) family agreed.

                Glorfindel shook his head. “You can if you wish. By the way she spoke, I doubt she cares much for being thanked. And whatever you do, do _not_ call her ‘My Lady.’”

                Rog raised an eyebrow. “I’ve a feeling there’s a story about that one. But it can wait. How did you die? I died impressively, if I do say so myself.”

                “I bet I died better than you.” Naraca interjected.

                “Children!” Kondor exclaimed. “’Tis not a contest! But if it was, I would win.”

                Gaergwen, who had joined them and leaned back on Rog’s broad chest, elbowed her beloved hard enough to make him grunt, and reached up to slap the back of Kondor’s head hard enough to make them all wince in sympathy.

                “Really?” Ecthelion asked in exasperation. “Rog, you were killed by a dragon and a bunch of orcs.” Suddenly, he smirked. “ _I,_ meanwhile, got the better of _three_ Valaraukar. I win.”

                The argument started once more, and, finally comfortable, Glorfindel leaned against the wall with a smile. The only thing that would make this better was for his mate to be by his side. Once again, he forced the wish from his head- he would _not_ hope for his mate to die. _Never._ But that would not stop him for wishing his mate would come to him by boat.

                Glorfindel fell into a routine; he would get up, get dressed, and leave with his mother. While she went to speak with her own friends, he would assist some of the Maiar- and beg for any information about his husband. Ecthelion was by his side throughout, asking for information on both his brother and his mother. They would eat the evening meal, and Glorfindel would return to his mother’s rooms. They would speak there, often, but he despaired, for his mother grew only more disapproving of his choice in a male for a mate- and became more outspoken about it. She wanted him to stop this; to heal his own soul and mind, and let the Maiar direct the dead, now that they had a grip on their numbers, and, most importantly, to forget his own mate and find one who _she_ approved of.

                Things came to a head when his eldest cousin Antë, the one who had fought in the tourney, succumbed to her wounds on the battlefield and returned. They got to speaking, and after so much disgust she’d fought off in Gondolin, had decided that, now that she was dead, she felt no need to hide herself. In her own words, she had spent so much time trying to deny her own mate that she had wasted all their years together. Malasta, who had already joined the ranks of the fallen, agreed, and the two she-elves were promptly wed, though both of their parents disapproved.

                It was as if the wedding was some unspoken signal; though the older elves were confused, and many times, disgusted by it, many other couples came forth. The Maiar continued their work, building new rooms, and in the halls of the dead, many families were split apart, while more were created.

                Glorfindel found himself creating a friendship with the Maia known commonly as Vengeance, and her sister, Justice. He often laughed at Vengeance’s antics- she made sure to attend every one of the weddings, and sat as close to the most disapproving of elves as possible just to make them uncomfortable. At one point, they began a rousing discussion of what punishments were commonly made for elves that hated one another on so simple a thing.

                And several months after that, an exhausted Gilyā joined them, to many tears. She took one of the new rooms, and Ecthelion said he would dwell with her until the next hall was opened up. She shook her head, when asked about her death, plainly ashamed. “I did not even fight, my sons. I faded from my grief, and left your brother to his own devices.”

                At Glorfindel and Erestor’s request, she spoke of the long journey to Sirion. She had only made it halfway there, but she had extracted a promise from Erestor to have her buried instead of burned, as was common among elves. She told him of the long walk away from the camp to an old silver-mine, used by dwarves and abandoned. They had spent many days down there, just talking, and one day, she fell asleep, resting her head upon his chest. And the next moment, she was no longer in the arms of her younger son, but in the Halls of Mandos.

                She refused, flatly, to go to the main hall for quite a while, and it did not take long for Glorfindel to realize why. How could she? Her husband, the one who had bought her like cattle and treated her as property when she could not return his love, was there.

                On a quiet day, when his mother was busy sulking over the fact he was _not going to marry a she-elf, thank you very much!_ , and Ecthelion and his mother were visiting with Rog’s family, he slipped away quietly, counting hallways from his memory. Antë and Malasta accompanied him for a while, but he was soon enough alone. After walking long enough to make his legs and chest ache, he finally reached a different set of halls.

                The residential sections had walls of the finest wood, or warm red and yellow stone, and floors of all kinds of stone, covered in warm, colorful rugs. The walls were draped in tapestries, and there were fires in every hearth to warm them. It was not so here.

                Far over his head and to his sides, the Hall of Punishment reached its dark hands. The walls were black as pitch, dark as Vengeance herself, and water dripped from the cave roof. Stalactites and Stalagmites grew from both the floor and ceiling. Orbs, which he knew now to be the spirits of evil creatures, like orcs, cast sickly, wan green light over small parts of the cave. It was in no way enough to see by, but he had, at Justice’s suggestion, brought with him a torch which he promptly set alight. The evil spirits let him be, wandering aimlessly, and he did his best to avoid touching them. He came to a set of three doors, all identical.

                He took the door to the left, following the sound of screaming, and found himself in Vengeance’s hellish domain. The shadows moved around unnaturally, on their own accord, and not simply due to the light; there were more shadows here than were possible for one elf. “The shades of evil men.” Came a familiar voice in explanation. “They cannot harm you, but they dissuade visitors who come without reason.”

                Though he knew Vengeance stood only a few feet away, he found himself unable to see her. It was nerve-wracking, though he knew she would not injure him without cause. “I was nigh sent back simply by the sound of the screams; I cannot imagine that you need them so regularly.”

                She laughed. “No, not usually. What have you come for?” She asked, moving forward; finally, the light reflected off of her eyes.

                “A little assistance. And some revenge.”

                A glint of teeth swiftly followed. “Well, well, well. What are friends for?”

                They rose from the dark depths, taking a brief detour through Justice’s place; it was all white marble, clean edges. There were no shades of gray in her realm, only right and wrong. The idea that he had befriended Namo’s two most powerful Maiar had only recently sunk in. The two sisters nodded to one another, and he took a moment to observe Justice. Her skin was blue as a summer sky, with strange swirls of pure gold coating it. Her nails were kept neat, but a golden sword was sheathed at her side; her teeth could be described as normal when she smiled, which was only very rarely, and her eyes were molten gold without any pupil or white. Her hair, too, was just as golden as his. Unlike his, however, hers hung straight down to her knees without a single kink or curl, as if instead of hair, she had beaten sheets of the metal.

                As always, in her left hand, she bore a set of scales, with which she weighed the amount of evil and the amount of good someone had done in their lives. Should good outweigh evil, they would wait for judgment and possible rebirth in the halls above; thankfully, this was his fate. Should evil outweigh good, they would be handed over to her sister, and there were many shades in the realm of Vengeance. A person was punished as befitted their crime, for however long they took to learn the lesson, and with a viciousness that matched and beat their own. She had advised her beloved Master not to release Melkor so long ago- but he obeyed his brother, and she was assured that, when the second song began, she would be tasked with tearing out all of his evil and everything that had _made_ him evil, and return him clean and new.

                The realm of Vengeance was a mine in which rough rocks were broken, smelted, and made new. The realm of Justice was where they gained their final form and polish.

                They left after a bit of polite conversation, and the order to attend a meeting of sorts, with all the other Maia and Namo himself. This rarely happened, but sometimes, good and evil matched in amount in a person’s life, and they were forced to decide whether they needed to be punished or not.

                They stopped soon after as well, and she gestured to a hall, half stone, half wood, and obviously unfinished. “Your rooms will be here, when they are finished. Do not worry, I managed to convince my sister that marble was not the best decoration for a home.”

                He laughed at that, and they continued up the stairs. He laid aside his torch, and asked a young one- elflings, strangely enough, had absolutely no fear of Vengeance- to go and get Gilyā. They met up outside of the main hall, and though she was obviously terrified, gritted her teeth and met the Maiar’s eyes. “Gilyā.” He stated, embracing the stiff elf before him.

                “Glorfindel.” She responded, seeming for all the world calm as an old oak.

                “This is my friend, Okthāpaime.” He said, introducing the two. “We’ve news for you- she says that it is time.”

                Finally, that curiosity which Erestor inherited in spades, won out. “And what time do you speak of?”

                “Punishment.” Vengeance rumbled with a bloodthirsty grin. They entered the hall, and waited. For a while, Glorfindel spoke with new spirits, begging for information as always. Idril and Tuor, they told him, had sailed, leaving their young child. Erestor, they told him, was watching over him and raising him. However, their description of Erestor- cold, harsh, with eyes like that of Namo and hair just as dark, with a demeanor befitting Justice herself, was so different from his own cheerful, kind little love that he had no idea of there was simply another elf by his name, or if his death had driven him mad.

                As usual, Ecthelion joined them, though he was understandably reserved about the presence of Vengeance. He thought it ironic that Ecthelion’s father came through the same door Vengeance had pulled Salgant through not a week ago. He started at the sight of his wife, eldest son, Vengeance itself, and Glorfindel sitting at one table. Still, it was common enough to see Glorfindel and one or the other Maiar of judgment together, and he and Ecthelion were nigh inseparable. What unnerved him the most, however, was the way they watched him. Gilyā seemed relieved, Ecthelion’s eyes were burning, Glorfindel was clearly enraged, and Vengeance- she was smiling, teeth hidden behind crimson lips.

                “It is time for your punishment, Malke. Time to be reborn.” The elf was obviously confused, but stepped backwards; others looked on in terror and in relief. It was Glorfindel’s understanding that only the presence of the Maia had prevented him from taking another to wife by force.

                That branding iron came out, and so did her arm, trapping him by the neck before he could run. And he was branded, right upon his left cheek, before Vengeance pulled him, not down, but to Namo’s own office. He would be reborn, in most…unfortunate circumstances.


	4. Questions from a carpenter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Whelp, we're finally getting somewhere with this. Please let me know what you think! I'm working on the companion piece, which details all this from Erestor's point of view, and I should have the first chapter up soon.

                By now, Glorfindel had been dead for almost ten years. And in those ten years, the massive floods of dead elves had finally slowed to a trickle. But he never failed to question others about his mate; and he never failed to weep over the changes that had apparently come over him.

                His relationship with his mother, unfortunately, had become both more and less tense. She still steadfastly refused to accept the fact that he was wed to a male and would not surrender him, and the time they spent together grew less and less. However, they had both finally spoken to one another of all that had happened in their lives- and though Glorfindel was sorry she had fallen when he was so young, he found himself grateful that he had not been raised under her influence as well as his father’s. He might never have had the courage to do much of anything, for though his mother was not evil, she was not overly accepting of new ideas and ways of living.

                On the other hand, he seemed to have gained a new one. He and Gilyā were closer than ever, and without the ever-present fear of her husband, or of her children learning what had happened to her and thinking her weak, she had opened up. For the last two years, he had shared the rooms meant for herself and Ecthelion with the two elves, and learned what it was to be part of an actual family.

                Through it all, he found himself wondering- ‘ _what would Erestor think? Would he be happy here with us? Where is he now?’_ These thoughts, unfortunately, had no answer for one of the dead. And so he had to be content with questioning every new arrival- that being said, he was not content at all. He wanted to _see_ , to _hear,_ to _know_ Erestor was fine. But there was no way he knew of that would allow him that.

                Today- or tonight, there was really no way to tell the time of day, unless he went to his mother’s rooms, and he did not care to- he was given his new rooms. The rooms themselves were spacious, with honey-brown wood as the walls and flags of some pinkish-brown stone called ‘terra-cotta’ as the floor. The ceiling was white, with exposed wooden beams, and as always, there was not a single window. The bed was a simple thing- two mattresses upon a plain oak frame, with a few pillows, and a rough but clean wool blanket. There was a couch there too- plain oak, blue cushions. His table, chairs, and even the tub for him to was in was made of the same stuff. He smiled at that, for he saw not plain furnishings as a punishment for living too lavishly- but, rather, as an opportunity to make this place his own.

                What many did not know about the Halls of Waiting was that they were not idle; they had the opportunity to be, and many who worked over-long and over-hard in their lives chose to take a break for a few years, but most quickly grew to being bored. They did not grow their food, but there were Elven cooks in the kitchens, tanners not too far by, and cheesemakers across that particular hall. There too were gardens, which had plants that grew as they would upon the surface but without even the barest bit of light. Gilyā had found her place within the smith’s guild- and met several famous ones there. The infamous elf who had created the Silmarils was not present; likely, Glorfindel thought, he was being punished in the halls below. Ecthelion often accompanied her as well, and they had achieved the closeness which he had previously despaired of ever getting.

                A few months ago, he had followed the two, but they had went right past the smithies and forges, with their ever-ringing anvils, and into a hall which smelled of wood-smoke, resin, and sawdust. He did not go to the main hall today, but pulled out a stiff leather box with tools including a whittling knife, plane, hammer, and other goods. Glorfindel knew without a doubt that one of the Maia, or one of his friends, would inform him if anyone came through, and so he worked through the day.

                The floor was soon covered by wood shavings and filled with the smell of wood-stain and dust from the chalk pencil he used to outline designs before he got to work. As he finally stood after several hours of working on one part of his couch, crouched and leaning over carefully, his back popped, and he reflected that perhaps he should not have started off with such a large piece. Quickly, he covered the pale parts he’d uncovered with stain, and the entire thing with a shiny wax sealant before sweeping up the remains and tossing it into the fireplace.

                Once finished, he rinsed himself off, braided his hair, and dressed before heading off to the main hall. Glorfindel was not allowed to go a full day without speaking with someone, it seemed, and he knew without a doubt that his rooms were going to be sought out if he did not join most of the elves. He stepped into the hall, and looked about. The size of the actual hall had increased five-fold, to account for the extra elves, and so it was more difficult to find someone he knew well. Still, he had no shortage of elves willing to share a meal with him; for many, he was one of the first people they saw when they wandered out of the receiving room and into the main hall. This place was the heart of the Halls of the Dead, and so they were all drawn to it, just as blood was drawn to a beating heart.

                He ate ravenously- though he was not truly alive, sometimes it felt as if he were. He had only to reach his hand up to feel one of the still and cold veins upon his neck to know the truth. He ate not for the need to do so, but for the want. He breathed and drank for the same reasons; there were some elves who were so uncomfortable with the idea that they did not eat or drink or be merry. They simply isolated themselves.

                During his meal, he was approached by a few elves he counted as friends, and willingly left with them; he listened to a few songs by the minstrels here, and took his leave. He did not return to his room, but instead chose to explore the Halls. He noticed they were becoming larger, darker, and colder. He stopped before a large set of doors; and large, perhaps, was an understatement. He would have certainly had to leap up to grab ahold of one of the knobs, each of which would have taken the entirety of both of his arms to wrap about. When he touched the doors, he fell faint immediately. And he woke in Ecthelion’s and Gilyā’s rooms.

                “What were you thinking?” The she-elf demanded as his opened his eyes.

                “I don’t- what happened?” He rasped. His head pounded angrily and his stomach flipped.

                Gilyā stood at the end of the bed, pacing back and forth. Her gray eyes flashed dangerously, and she scowled fiercely. “What happened? Glorfindel, you touched the doors to the living! You are luck you are already dead- you would certainly have died again if not!”

                He rubbed his face with one hand and tried- and failed- to sit up. Before he could tumble to the floor, the lady smith picked him up as if he weighed nothing and plopped him firmly back in the bed, tugging up the blankets. “Stay here, or I will get my son to sit on you.” She commanded.

                His little attempt had left him feeling so physically ill that he did not even consider disobeying. He stayed in that bed for well-nigh a week, during which their rooms received many visitors- it seemed that even when dead, Glorfindel was a popular elf.

                He returned to his own rooms at the end of that, and silently vowed to be careful of where he wandered. This was how another decade was spent; carving all of the furniture in his rooms, then that in Gilyā’s, making wooden carvings and figurines, and trying (and largely failing) at other crafts. He had been promptly banned from the kitchens after his first endeavor, and had to leave the tanneries almost immediately- the smell of cooked flesh and burning permeated the place. He had skill indeed with a harp, but ‘twas nothing when compared with the skills of his friends. He practiced when he could (and he had much time to do so) but there was a certain level of playing which he simply could not attain. The forges brought painful members of his death, and the smithies were far too loud, even with wax-covered balls of cotton stuffed in his ears.

                There was a brief respite from the boredom for him when Rog and Gaergwen moved into their own rooms; the Telerin had enjoyed his work, and he spent a few weeks doing nothing but carving and staining _everything_ in their rooms, from the closets to the couches to the chairs to the bed and shelves. That was not to say that all his time was spent in wood-craft, however. Every day, for many hours, he practiced his preferred craft- that of the sword- with any who would join him. With many things to enjoy and do besides fighting, however, he was largely left to hone his skills on his own.

                Vengeance, he found, was the only one of them who could- and regularly did- best him. He learned many things from her, and he could be found in the training rooms with her regularly. She seemed to view these sessions as stress relief, and rarely reserved her strength; after all, it was not as if he was still alive.

                He was called upon again after Ecthelion finally decided to court Naraca. She’d blatantly refused him, said she had no patience for such things, and dragged him to one of the Maia that very day to be wed. Glorfindel had spent much of that day laughing.

                And then more elves came. Gaergwen was with him as he interrogated and assisted those elves who came through, for they were Teleri and Noldo from the city of Sirion. Another kinslaying, again by the sons of Fëanor. Celegorm joined their numbers, for a time, before he was branded and taken by Vengeance to the halls of Justice to be judged. And from the fallen, he heard a frightening tale.

                Erestor had fought the three of them altogether, and had been wounded, but the elflings he’d tried to protect, the sons of Eärendil (who had apparently grown up to be quite a lordly elf indeed), had been captured. The cold-hearted elf followed him, wounded though he was, and from all accounts intended to kill both Maedhros and Maglor or at least steal the little ones away to safety.

                Glorfindel wept; this was not the Erestor he had fallen in love with, this hardened warrior. Would he ever see Erestor as he once was, joyful and kind? Or was he forever lost?

                The dead came regularly for a while, and then poured in once more- the Valar had stepped in and sent an entire _host_ to attack Morgoth and his captains.

                Among those dead, Gaergwen was finally reunited with her brother; it was a tearful thing, and she left his side regretfully to care for him. Glorfindel understood and offered her his rooms if she did not want to take him to the boisterous Noldo elf who was her husband.

                He learned more of Erestor, then- he had been through Beleriand, for a little while at least, on a mission from the current high-king, Gil-Galad. They told him little he did not already know; the elf no longer shared any resemblance with a scribe. He was dark of hair, silver of eye, and his tawny skin had darkened from long hours in the sun upon horseback and ship. His expression was often flat, less he scowled- and that frown was often enough to end an argument before it truly began. His elflings had grown, one a king of man, the other a lord among elves; he had a wicked scar upon his arm from a kinslayer’s blade, which had not properly healed, and with knives, he was death personified. He fought nearly as well with his mithril sword, and tore apart enemies with scarcely a thought. It was with mixed amusement and sorrow that he realized he was not the leader of the caravan- he was its’ hired protector, and was thought of with such high esteem that only one more guard was assigned. He had signed on with Gildor’s Travelling Company; and rumors had it that he had taken a child from the Telerin country before it could be drowned with the rest of its’ people.

                There were battles off and on through the latter years of the first age and the second age; news came to him regularly. He wept at the death which swept through the company Erestor was in; the elf had survived, and had killed his way back to the main army. By the end of the first age, none who joined the ranks of the fallen could give him anything which hinted at the sweet, kind creature Erestor had been at one point. And the question came to his mind unbidden once more: would he ever see his Erestor again? And more importantly- would he and Erestor still love one another? Or would they have grown too far apart?

                There was no answer for him.


	5. Investigations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Guys, I finally finished A-Z Lord of the Rings! Yay! But here's the next chapter- and a little more Balrog-slaying Glorfindel for you. Enjoy! Let me know what you think.

          After another two months, Glorfindel was tired of waiting. There were only so many pieces of furniture he could create or decorate whilst waiting for news for Erestor, only so many wooden children's toys sent to other craftspeople to have them painted or have clothing draped on them (try as he might, Glorfindel was  _not_ an artist with anything but wood). 

         And so he sought out the place he said he never wanted to go again. The doors of the living. Remembering what had happened last time, he used his thick leather work gloves instead of his bare hands to try and pull the doorknob once he'd lept up to it. 

         He woke up, this time in Malasta's sitting room. The she-elf was scowling at him, and his cousin railed at him, but once he was well, he set about something new- a thicker set of gloves and a set of small wooden shields for his palms. 

         That ended up with a broken leg and the embarrassment of finding out Rog had carried him like a sack of potatoes back to his own room. 

         The third time he tried- this time attempting instead to cut  _through_ the door with terrible results, ended up in his room with Okthāpaime staring down at him. 

         "Afternoon!" He greeted cheerfully. "Or maybe evening or morning- I can never tell." 

         She scowled. "If you do not stop this Glorfindel, I shall be forced to drag you down to my realm; and not as a guest." She warned. 

         He waved a hand. "If it gets me reborn sooner so that I can find Erestor, then get to it! Rip off my skin, like you did Maeglin, or drown me perhaps. Fire is the most painful anyhow, and I'd gladly fight the Balrog again if it got me to the other side."

         She tapped her foot distractedly, and massaged the base of one of her horns. "Glorfindel, you are a nuisance! I will speak with my master- provided you promise me you will  _not_ attempt to go through the Doors of the Living again without my or Lord Namo's assistance."

         He thought for a moment. 

         "Agreed." He stated, and shook her clawed hand on it. She shook her head as she left, slamming the door behind her. 

 

 

         During the next few weeks, not a single dead person in the Halls of Waiting would disagree with the statement- 'Glorfindel is annoying." He had been asked for patience- but it had never been his strong suit, and he railed, grumbled, and growled at anyone who would listen. A few more of the royal lines found their way to the halls and were mercilessly interrogated about Erestor. He had little news from any of them, except for the father of Gil-Galad, the new high king. Erestor was a cold and ferocious warrior, according to him, and had a Telerin boy as a companion. He also suggested that his companion was used more for sexual purposes than anything else, and both Rog  _and_ Ecthelion had to pull him off of the elf in question. 

         Meanwhile, Vengeance, usually so swift, had met her match: bureaucracy. There had been a two-week long debate with her sister about even the possibility before she managed to get her to agree to call a meeting. And then she'd taken a week to round up all the Maiar (who were surprisingly slippery when it came to long meetings), before being able to get her master and mistress agree to hear the case. 

         By the end of the fourth week, all she'd gotten was her master and mistress to consult the tapestries, agree that someone had to be reborn, and agree to speak with Manwë. And he returned with- give it a century or two. 

         Of course, no one could argue against the King of the Valar (well, they could, they just might end up slightly singed or pooped on by eagles), and so Vengeance returned with the news. 

 

         "Glorfindel!" She called upon him the moment they were finished with the trial, knowing he would be deeply asleep at this hour. She was not wrong, and took great pleasure in dumping a bucket of cold water on his bed to wake him; it was the least she could do for getting all this done. 

         He spat and spluttered as he sat up. "What?" He demanded, wiping water from his face and quickly standing. 

         "Good news or bad news first?" She asked, making herself comfortable on the dresser. 

         He frowned- it was where he kept his dry clothing. "Good news?"

         "Good news- you're going to be reborn, with all of your memories intact, to fight once more for the Elves- and if you seek out your mate while doing so, so be it."

         He made a happy noise, and almost hugged her- but then stopped. "And the bad news?"

         "You'll have the scars from the Balrog." 

         "Oh." That wasn't so bad- he could live with it, and was confident Erestor had gained his own anyway. "Well, that's fine then."

         "And it will be a while."

         He nodded- he had hoped, of course, for something immediate, but hadn't truly expected it. "Fair enough. Another year, maybe two?"

         She shook her head. "Longer."

         He looked at her carefully. "A decade?" That would be well and truly unpleasant, but he could deal with that.

         The dark skinned Maia shrugged. "You're still off a little."

         "By how much?" He asked.

         She shrugged again. "Oh, not long, Just a century or two. Morning, Glorfindel."

         "Wait, why a full century?"

But she was already gone. 


	6. A Mother's Pride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I’m sorry guys, I just haven’t felt up to writing lately. I’ve been going through a very rough spot in time. But now I’m back with a new chapter of Namo’s Halls, and I should have the new chapter of Cold Waters and Colder Elves up within the next week or two! As for Archer’s Notes, I don’t know if I’m going to have an update for the main story until a few more weeks, but I am planning on getting out little character-building one-shots for the following people: Arwen, Elladan, Elrohir, Bard, and (hopefully) Glorfindel. And you’ll find out why Tauriel calls him ‘uncle Feanor.’ But that’s in a different story, so if you’re only here for the Courting Mishaps Verse, please feel free to skip over the above info and start reading below! This brings in part of the ‘dream’ comment a few chapters ago.
> 
> Itisya- Quenya, Parf Edhellen- irritate.  
> Amal- Quenya, Parf Edhellen- mother (formal, versus Amme, which is sort of ‘momma’ or ‘mum’.)

“A full century! This is ridiculous!” Glorfindel fumed. “What if I’m too late by the time I get there?” He demanded of no one in particular. This was because, of course, his rooms were completely empty except for his furniture, a grumpy cat which had apparently laid claim to his favorite armchair, and himself. He turned to the cat. “And why are you even here?”  
The black cat with a singular white front left paw looked at him, clearly unimpressed by his tantrum. The rules of the dead were fairly simple, he thought- elves to Namo’s Halls. Dwarves to those of Aule. Humans to- wherever Eru put them. All animals to Nessa. But animals- they had a free pass. They could hop from afterlife to afterlife whenever they pleased; he had seen a dog play with its’ long-dead master more than once and then just- pop out of existence. That was generally it- pets sought out their owners. There was a loving bond there, and the animals wished to see their masters once more. But this- furry little hell-bringer! It clawed his furniture, peed on his couch until he bought in a box of sand (and had to clean it daily), and jumped on his shoulder whenever he was eating.  
It was, in a word, a nuisance. And he had never owned a cat- so why had it sought him out? At first, he thought he simply looked like the cat’s old master, but it showed no interest in tall elves, blonde elves, or even simply male elves- except for him.  
He’d named it Itisya- irritate. Itisya lived up to its’ name (he hadn’t cared to find out the gender), though everyone else in the Halls of the Dead seemed to find the little rascal adorable and friendly. They hadn’t had furniture they’d built- by hand!- torn by it.  
Anyway, the cat’s only reaction to his little tantrum besides to stare was to yawn and then just- leave. It didn’t leave through the door (though his door was closed anyway), simply disappeared with a soft ‘pop!’, and he was left alone. Doubtless, he thought, he’d find it later, sitting on his chest as he tried to sleep.  
He grumbled to the fireplace now, as he was now one uncaring cat short, until there was a knock at the door. Glorfindel took a few deep breaths to calm himself before opening it; to his great surprise, it was his mother.  
“Amal.” He greeted, gesturing her in, curious as to her purpose. They had been- strained- with one another for a while. It was not necessarily a hostile relationship, but it had been a while since either one of them had actively sought one another out.  
She nodded to him and stepped in, almost immediately running her hands along some of the carvings. “These are- very well done. I see you have taken at least some of my advice.”  
He shut the door behind her. “I took the parts that made sense.” He agreed, and stood quietly.  
She turned to look at him and sighed heavily. “Yes. I will admit I have not made much- sense. At least, not to someone so different from myself.”  
He cocked his head to the side a little- was she apologizing? Well, none had ever accused him of dancing around an issue, and plenty had told him he had no tact, so he’d best not disappoint. “What are you here for, Amal?” He asked.  
She stared at the flowers, leaves, trees, and animals carved on his armoire, and traced them with a finger. “I have heard you are attempting to leave before your time. For him.”  
In a sudden rush of irritation, he corrected her. “For Erestor. He has a name.”  
Her hands stilled. “But regardless, you are attempting to leave. I have come to- make my peace, as much as it can be made. I failed, as a mother, to protect you from the spider, and from your father. For that, I am not at fault and so I will not apologize.” She stated stiffly, then continued, some of the pride leaving her stiff form. “But I failed, too, in something that I could do- I failed in being your mother now. And that is, at least in part, my fault. And I am sorry about that.”  
He reached out, and took one of her shoulders in one massive paw, turning her to look upon her. There were clear trails running down their face, and he wondered briefly how much it had taken for someone so proud and sure of herself to seek him out for the purpose of admitting her guilt. Unthinking, he pulled her close and crushed her in an embrace; his nature was kind, and how could he deny her forgiveness for her pride, when his own was his main failing?  
“Will you tell me, now, what I asked of you when you first arrived- and then denied you?” She croaked out. Her voice was muffled and it took him a moment to understand what she was saying.  
“The Grinding Ice?” He wondered. “Perhaps the fall of my home?”  
She shook her head, still buried in his torso. He waited for her to ask to no avail. “Then what would you have me speak of?” He finally asked in a decidedly softer voice than before. If she was trying- the least he could do would be to meet her halfway.  
There was a heavy sigh from beneath his head, and he waited once more. Patience had never been his strong suit. That had been- Erestor’s, he supposed. Though if the words of the dead had any truth to them, he was no longer the patient strategist he once was. Strategist? Certainly. Patient? Never, not anymore at least.  
“You have an eternity of peace and rest ahead of you- here, and then in Valinor.” He did not contradict her- it was he who spent time with the Maia, not her, and he happened to know that they weren’t always reborn into Valinor- the subject of reincarnation was complicated to say the least, and would certainly upset even more of her ideals. “So why would you risk it all to go back to a place of such pain? People change, Sunbeam, and it may not be worth the effort to return.”  
He tensed- so this was why she was here. He fought of the anger and instead pulled away, gesturing to the chair nearest her, while he took the chair that was commonly Itisya’s domain. “What do you know of love- love that is true, and with someone who loves you back?” It was harsh, he knew, and likely uncalled for- but she obviously was willing to at least pretend to listen now.  
She looked at him, shocked at the crass question, and perhaps a hidden accusation. “I know what I have seen in life, and then in death. And that is enough to know that no love, no matter how true in the beginning, lasts the strain of time.”  
‘Life teaches its’ own lessons. If they have already learned, I tend not to go over it again.’ Vengeance’s words came unbidden to his mind. Perhaps this was why she had not already been reborn- she could not let go of the evil in her past, and evil was not allowed in the blessed realm, not anymore.  
He frowned at her. “Then you know nothing of love.” He stated simply. “You wish to listen, finally? Then do not interrupt-“ he cautioned her, as she sat ram-rod straight, mouth opening, “and I will tell you what it is like.”  
She gritted her teeth but nodded. He made eye contact for just a moment and saw what he expected- anger, an injured ego, and hurt. But he saw something else, too- fear. And dare he say it, a little hope? Perhaps not all was lost with her.  
And so he spoke. “Love does not make demands for heirs or money, let us clear that up now. It does ask for some things: trust, dedication, and a return of itself in equal measure. Trust is- harder than you might think to give. But dedication? If you are stubborn as I, which I know you are- that, at least, should be easy. The return- it should be easy. I have seen it forced, in arranged bondings, and I’ve never seen it end well.”  
He shook his head at that. “There are concessions, of course. There is a point in which your life is no longer your own. If you have chosen well, that time will be indeed blessed. No matter how short it is.” He added, a tad bitterly.  
“And if it is real- if all of those things exist- then no matter how much one changes, the other will change along with them, and the two will do what they must to meet. Not even death can ruin that.”  
She turned her head away from him, and he could not blame her. He did not know how painful it would be to know of love, to know you could have had it- and missed it. But he had at least an idea, and did not bother trying to hide his smile. Erestor- smart, ever-scheming Erestor- he had played him like his brother played the flute at the summer festival. He could certainly have used his advice when dealing with his mother. Decades, centuries- it was impossible to track time here- he had existed in the Halls of Namo, but only now was he making any progress with her. If he’d been here, his mate could probably have won her over within a few minutes of meeting her.  
He chuckled, and she turned towards him once more, though her hair still obscured her face, and she was looking down. “I was thinking- you would have loved him if he was here. Or you would have hated him, and found your own reasons completely unreasonable, because he would argue you out of them.”  
“A silver tongue, then?” She asked.  
He nodded. “Indeed. And just like the waters of his house- he streams about some obstacles as if they are nothing, and wears the others down with brutal efficiency.”  
“I can see why the two of you would have gotten along.” She admitted.  
“Better than just ‘got along’. I knew I loved him- not the first time I saw him, or the second, but maybe on the third or fourth. I forget- his brother and I were having some argument, Thel was wounded so we couldn’t finish it the usual way, and he stepped in. Debated me until I had to admit he was right, and then until I forgot what we were arguing about. It’s the eyes.” He complained. “You make eye contact, and just- fall in. How can anyone argue when looking at someone like that?”  
She huffed. “I do not know- certainly, I had my share of arguments with your father. I remember them all, really, and none of them ended with a winner.”  
He sighed, a little sadly. “Let him go, Amal. He is being punished- I can guarantee you in a highly personal manner. Vengeance is fond of children, and he caused the death of many.”  
“That Maiar of yours. How do you-“  
“Ah, ah, ah!” He interrupted. “We are not finished.”  
She turned to him with a glare and a rare smile, all in one. “Oh, Sunbeam. Always so stubborn. Not finished, I agree. What else?”  
“A question of mine- and in return, you can ask me what you will. Why do you hate Erestor so much, when you have never met him and know naught of him?”  
She blinked in surprise at the bold question- though then again, the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower had never been anything but bold. Not to her knowledge. “I do not hate your-“ she seemed to struggle for a moment “mate. I simply do not think this is wise- what will others think of you? And if you care so little of yourself, about him?” She pleaded, and he shook his head in disbelief.  
“What others think? What do they matter, Amal? That is another thing with love- as long as the both of you are happy, such things cease to matter. I love him, he loves me- what does it matter what some long dead warriors or politicians or parents think of it?” He asked, not particularly caring that he’d blatantly insulted her entire generation.  
“What does it matter? Appearance is what others judge you by, Laurefindel. It is important.”  
“Aye- that’s what Ninquaion always said.”  
Silence- hurt flashed across her face. “You dare accuse me of-“  
“I accuse you of nothing you do not admit. Forget what others think for a moment, Amal, and think of what you believe for a moment. Think of your own happiness, less you be stuck here forever. That is what happens to those who cannot forgive themselves.”  
She rose suddenly. “What do I think? I think this is foolish! If it makes you happy- so be it. But there are those who will never accept it, and it will bring you misery!”  
He glared at her and took another deep breath. “Sit.” He commanded. “Sit- we are not finished. You do not understand of what I speak. Let me say this, and reassure yourself with it- I fought my way across the Grinding Ice against trials innumerable. I oversaw the construction of a city which almost everyone thought impossible. I have lived, Amal, and at three hundred, I was older than you had ever been. You wish for experience, listen! My wedding was planned by a princess who had better things- like saving a city- to worry about, and I was wed by her father, the King. And I can tell you this- if you constantly care what someone else, besides those you love, think, you shall be miserable.”   
“And what of yourself, Laurefindel? Do you not care if he is miserable later in his life for this choice?” She snapped, desperate for something- what it was, he could not tell.   
He groaned, it was always a circle with her. Just when he thought he was making progress! “Amal, listen. I do not know if we will remain happy until the Second Song. But I do know this; he is miserable now without me or his family. Even here, without him, I at least have the company of everyone he knows and loves. And yes, I do care what happens to him- why would I be so worried and so determined to return, if not for that?” He shook his head. “I hope- one day- that you will understand of what I speak. I do not know if you simply cannot, or if you are refusing to open your mind and heart; but that does not matter- what does matter is that I am reunited with the other half of my soul. How else am I to rest here?”   
She was silent once more, and he debated seeking the training grounds. Surely, it would be more productive than this, and at least he could release some of his stress. A full century. Was his mother right? He doubted it, very much so. But he had been proven wrong more than once.   
He stretched, determined to leave; she could seek him out again later if she chose. “Laurefindel? Do you remember what I told you about, when you first came and saw the windows into Valinor?”   
He glanced at her, wondering where she was taking their conversation now. “Yes. I have tried time upon time to enter the dreams of both elves and mortals, under several instructors, but I have always failed.”   
“You try too hard, perhaps. You may want to attempt it with someone here, someone who you are not so foolishly desperate to reach.”   
He nodded. “I will do that, thank you.”   
He met her eyes, and she shook her head, leaving. Before closing the door, she added- “and my son? I do know of love. Perhaps not the kind you do, but I know a mother’s love. And that is just as great as any a lover might have.”   
“Did you try to return, then?” He challenged.   
She gave him a mournful look. “Yes. I was always told that you would join me soon.” The door shut behind her with a soft ‘click’, and he was left alone once more, until he heard a ‘pop!’. And there it was- the evil cat, sitting in the chair she’d occupied once more.   
“Why are you here?” He asked. “Why are any of us here?” The cat did not answer, but it did leap into his lap and snuggle up to him.


End file.
